Nightmare Fuel Unleaded
by xGraybackx
Summary: Trapped in the crux of Muggle central New York, Blaise Zabini is having the worst summer of his life. When Luna Lovegood makes her entrance, things can only go downhill. BZLL
1. Firefly

"Oh, Blaise, thank you so much for tonight." His date simpered, stars in her eyes.

She was very pretty, in a conventional sort of way. All big lips and shiny hair. Earlier, he had hoped to experience the feel of those lips between his own, but if he had learned anything from tonight, it was that along with big lips came with big chatter.

Ten minutes in, he was ready to call it quits.

They parted ways that night, one ecstatic, the other grim. It took a lot of cajoling to get her off his arm, as she insisted that her chauffer drive him home. Fortunately, she was on a curfew (of which she was an hour late) and was promptly whisked off.

The possibility of a second date still hung in the air. Blaise, gentleman as he was, did not decline nor accept. But perhaps that would later spell his doom.

He made his way along the road, kicking at the rocks along the pavement. It was getting dark, and he had to be getting back to his summer home. But first, he wanted to walk around, get some air. Despite not able to use magical transportation (he would _never_ ride the Night Bus), Blaise had his own means of getting home. His mother had provided him with a driver. He had a machine called a _"cell phone"_ in his pocket, and was assured that the driver was on "speed dial."

The night air was dark and cold. Many stores seemed to have closed down, though restaurants remained open. This was the classy part of the city; it was clean, but still scarce of people at this time of night.

Blaise was fitted in a white turtleneck, dark wash blue jeans, and a winter coat with a fur trimmed hood. Despite being entirely Muggle, he had to admit they were comfortable and did much for his looks. As if agreeing, a crescent moon tilted down at him lovingly, shining its light on his best features.

Blaise quietly reflected on the happenings of the past hours. The Muggle world was ghastly. Their dinners were prepared by other Muggles, ones in white hats and white aprons. The food was slow in preparation, as chefs had the skills, but not the _efficiency_ of house elves. When his date had spilled her drink - no matter how much Blaise's hand itched to pull out his wand and mutter a spell - a waiter was slow to get the mop.

Remembering the restaurant disgustedly, he found it was everything he had imagined it to be. Blaise had imagined primitive tableware and utensils. As a matter of fact, Malfoy had told him that they ate everything with their fingers. But the reality was far worse. Gaudy gold banners and white lace along the napkins, blindingly bright chandeliers and untalented musicians, the Muggles were a desperate race.

Unlike wizarding elitists, the Muggle elitists were uncouth and big mouthed. Purebloods were intimidating, self-aware, and talented. He was sure, if they had ever lost their money, they would be reduced to spluttering messes. Purebloods would keep their dignity right until the very end.

Needless to say, it was a poor showing.

Blaise stopped at the base of a tanned office building. An old sign proclaimed itself to be the home of "Huntington and Smith Law Associates." Like the other stores along the walk, no doubt it was closed and under lock and key.

"Bloody Muggles."

After speaking aloud, he had realized how deserted the area was. Street lights resonated as strongly as ever, yet there was no one around to appreciate their guiding light.

For those few blissful moments, Blaise was the last human on earth.

But all too suddenly, a strange twist occurred.

A girl suddenly leapt from an alley around the corner, then spotting a street lamp, began twirling around it. Skipping and flailing her arms, clapping her hands and stomping her feet, throwing her head back and laughing up a storm, she was drunk with madness.

So joyous was her demeanor that Blaise's apocalyptic allusions transgressed into a comparison of Adam and Eve. She was born dumb and naive, and had yet to pluck that bloody apple from the tree of knowledge. Who would be that snake come to corrupt her?

Dark streets were no place for a young woman to be traipsing about in, his mother had shared. It went without saying that being without company was a far worse position to be in. Years of etiquette instilled, he approached the girl.

She was still dancing under the lamp light. The artificial light gave her skin a sickly glow. Sickliness aside, the luminescence was blinding. Coupled with her sunny disposition, she was a human flashlight against the darkness.

Blaise wanted nothing more than to bludgeon her with a hex. These sorts always put him off; they were far too oblivious to their surroundings.

"Girl." He called.

Silver marbles peered back at him inquisitively. She didn't look too frightened, but looked disappointed, as if expecting a visitor.

As soon as he saw who it was, he wanted to turn tail and run. But she had already seen him. No, he resolved. He would not lose face in front of anyone.

"Blaise Zabini, hello. You can't be looking for the sprites too?" What a way to be greeted. Sprites in the Muggle world? Rubbish.

He shook his head. Looney was just as crazy during break as during school.

"Is that what you're doing? Searching?" Blaise admonished. "Looked like you were having a seizure."

"Oh, that was my ritual dance. The instructions are very specific, especially for this species. American sprites are shy creatures. They are rarely seen, but are privy to pearls."

She pointed to the string of pearls around her neck. "These were specially ground up from the banks of the Nile River, so they should be several times more effective."

He noticed, under the light, that she was also quite bundled up. She had on a shawl and skirt, of which he could see thick stockings peeking out from underneath. "Aren't you cold?"

"I'm fine, really. My family has a long running resistance to the cold. I believe we are distantly related to the now extinct Turnegills of Scotland." Blaise inwardly rolled his eyes. "But the question is, are _you _cold?"

Now that she mentioned it, he was shivering rather badly. Nothing a quick Incendio wouldn't fix up. Oh, wait. He cursed. The no-magic rule.

"I see you are as incorrigible as ever. How has this summer been treating you?"

She smiled vaguely. "Like a pillow against a cheek. Very comfortably."

Blaise nodded. "You have your wand?" No use staying if she could handle herself.

"Yes."

"Know how to use it?"

"Yes."

He would be surprised if she didn't. She was friends with Harry Potter. In her fourth year, she had held her own against Death Eaters (in the dark, he had heard). Somehow, by the end of the year, Looney Lovegood had become infamous as one of the top ten best duelers at Hogwarts.

Hm. No damsel in distress here. He turned to leave, but stopped again.

Sighing, Blaise faced her once more.

"And you're expecting someone?"

"Yes, actually! My father! How did you know?"

"Oh, because he said he's running late. Wanted me to take you back home. We're taking a Muggle car. That sit fine with you?"

A nod.

"And I've got candy, lots of candy. You'll have some, won't you?"

An eager nod.

He had no idea how long she had been waiting for her father (in this dark, _abandoned_ alley) but she seemed compliant enough to follow a guy she hardly knew. Eager to see the good in people; loyal to a fault. _Salazar Slytherin_, he wanted to throttle her!

"I lied."

As expected, Luna was confused. She stared at him for awhile.

"I knew."

"What?"

"I knew you were lying." A childish answer from a childish girl.

"Really."

"Yes."

But still, she was a Ravenclaw. She was not book smart in the way Hermione Granger was, but was rather, he anticipated, of the creative and perceptive variety.

She tugged on her wool scarf uncomfortably. "Please, wait with me?"

Who was he to refuse a lady? He wouldn't. Well, unless they were Muggles, Muggle-born, Muggle sympathizers, magical creatures, fat, ugly, poor…the list went on.

Luna Lovegood most definitely made that list. She was a category all her own. So why am I still here? He wondered to himself. It was unlike him to stay (willingly) so long in the presence of a person he found so detestable. Blaise chalked it up to natural curiosity, as would usually be accustomed to an individual the likes of Luna Lovegood, and the long absence of magical properties and persons in an unfamiliar environment.

Without hesitation, the handsome teenager picked up his heel and did an about face.

"Where are you going?" called Luna.

"Home."

And he really meant it. As soon as he could, he would be hitching a ride back to London, back to the wizarding world.

Blaise went on walking at a sure pace through the night, until he was secure in his mind that if were to look back, there would be no blonde poof of hair flitting around a lamp post like a firefly among the shadows.

As soon as he reached the nearest bus stop, Blaise collapsed against the bench. Stupid, stupid, stupid…he wanted to get away from Looney so bad that he had walked himself into exhaustion. With great effort, the young wizard wrenched the cell phone out of his jeans pocket and called the speed dial that would connect him to the driver.

"Mr. Zabini," answered a gruff voice on the other end. "You require my services?"

"Yes, pick me up at…" he scanned the street names, "the corner of 21st and Maine."

"Right away, sir. Will that be all?"

Blaise paused. Was she still waiting there? He pursed his mouth in great consternation. No, she couldn't be. It was almost one o' clock in the morning. She would be an idiot to remain there. Then Blaise remembered whom he was talking about. He mentally slapped himself.

* * *

"After I am dropped off, report to a place called," he paused, recalling the name. "…Huntington and Smith Law Associates, there might be a girl there, mark my words _might. _She's a scrawny little beanpole of a thing, so you might have to squint your eyes a little, but if she is present, you are to drive her to any which location she requires you to. If she refuses, you have my permission to drag her to the car, kicking and screaming if need be, and send her to my house."

Sandhurst listened, soaking all of his instructions in. It was a strange request, and his twenty five years at this job had not prepared him for such an eccentric employer. This almost bordered on kidnapping! But he also knew that the boy could not be any older than sixteen, so there was nothing to take seriously. The girl was probably someone he was smitten with. The driver almost clapped his hands gleefully.

Finally, there was an exciting side to this job!

"Also, I must warn you, she is armed. Believe me, it may not be a knife or a gun, but it could be just as worse. But do not worry. You will be richly compensated for any losses you may acquire, be it limbs or dignity."

Grinning from ear to ear at the teenager's humor, Sandhurst replied in the affirmative.

Oh, young love!

"Also, one more thing…do not, under any circumstances, tell her Blaise Zabini was behind this! Tell her you are a friend of her father's. And if she is not there, report to me straight away and you may go home. After either objective, _forget anything I have just said to you, and pretend like this never happened."_

As he exited the car, Blaise's worries were finally put to rest.

Come the Hogwart's school year, Luna Lovegood would be present to see the first day of school. He would not be responsible for her untimely death; he would not be the last one to see her alive.


	2. Fiddle Diddle

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. (Although I will be seeing the premier on July 15th!)

A/N: Thanks to Morncreek for being an AWESOME BETA-READER. However few people are reading this, I want you guys to applaud for her. And, most importantly, I'd like to thank my fans for waiting it out. Give yourselves a pat on the back. Just pretend its me. AGAIN, THANK YOU FANS!!!!

* * *

**Nightmare Fuel Unleaded - Chapter 2**

Feeling drained, Blaise came into the foyer. An enormous area, supported by a wine colored rug, accentuated the glistening atmosphere of the room. Diamond chandeliers lined the ceiling. A plethora of good looking actors, models, musicians, and socialites loitered around the house like a busy hive of bees. And planted in the middle of it all was a tall Eiffel tower of a wedding cake, frosted right up to the very ceiling.

He elbowed past a curvy redhead and maneuvered his way around an amorous couple. He zigzagged through dancing statues and sparkling ice sculptures and overcrowded salad bars. Finally, Blaise wandered upon the stairs. He lingered there briefly; hovering as if a ghost in rage.

Then he ascended.

Even upstairs, there were many people milling about. Blaise growled, not for the first time amazed as to the limits of his mother's connections network. He meandered through the crowd, going through the same routine again.

He found his room at the end of the hallway. Blaise had always liked his privacy, and forseeing the inevitable future he would have to be put through, chose the most isolated room in the house. Thankfully, his foresight had been proven true because the surrounding area was as desolate as desolate came. But then, upon closer inspection, Blaise saw…

The door was slightly ajar.

He _never _left his door open.

Blaise marched in fuming. He resisted the urge to slam the door behind him but simply swept eagle like eyes around the perimeter. There was nothing apparently obvious, and his room was still as clean as spotless as he left it.

A teenage boy's walls, one would expect, should be plastered with posters of cars, girls, and cars with girls. Perhaps a pungent odor wafting from beneath the bed. Or even dirty clothes littering the floor, covering every square inch but the laundry basket itself.

Blaise's room was none of these things.

Although only his first summer in the house, (the Zabinis owned many properties, inherited or otherwise,) Blaise had already furnished the room to his liking. It was eerily similar in appearance to the one in London, with the exception of the assured cleanliness that usually accompanied vacancy. Coming to terms with staying in Muggle Hell for the following month, he reasoned that he would at least be comfortable in his own quarters.

His orderly abode sported shades of grey and dark blues. Geometric shapes outlined the general theme. It was very dark, but aesthetically pleasing in its sophisticated modernity. There was little furniture, but plenty of fine art – the kind that one knows must be collected with a keen eye for authenticity – hidden within the shadows of the glass displays.

Other than that, there was little else remarkable to report. What _was_ noteworthy, however, was a figurine – _not _in the display. A glorious rendition of a late 19th century ballerina, he had picked the trinket up in a wizards' auction in Russia, supposedly last decorating the tsar's palace before the storming.

The ballerina was made of a clear glass, with a tiny red jewel insetting her throat. She was styled in an _arabesque par terre, _delicately lithe limbs stretched in airy wisps and dreams of silk ribbons; her face was serene in its subtlety, shaped with half-lidded eyes and a passionate mouth. One could only imagine what was coursing through her mind as there was a sly raise in her eyebrows and a conceited, yet timid loneliness in the line of her back.

Blaise had taken an instant liking to the ballerina. He had felt a gravitational pull toward her the moment he set eyes on her. Feeling the ballerina was the centerpiece of the whole room, Blaise locked the other pieces away in glass. When it would be time for him to go home, to the Wizarding world, he would bring the ballerina with him.

So Blaise, never one to deny his wants, claimed it. He had never felt that the figurine was too girly. It never crossed his mind until his mother had mentioned it. But unsympathetic Blaise, a Slytherin through and through, was impartial to others' opinions. He liked what he liked. If his newest fancy was a ballerina statuette, so be it.

Blaise had placed the ballerina on the dresser near his bedside. It was positioned in a way that, when he woke up, he would see the sunlight frolicking against the ridges and grooves along the sides, resulting rainbows dancing on the walls and on the floor. But his favorite moments were at night, when the moonlight would shine through the window and shine a distorted spotlight onto the ballerina.

There was something quite endearing about that, he'd always thought.

But enough about the figurine. There were more important things to tend to. The teenaged wizard did a quick scan of the premises. He checked his valuables first. Then he checked the bathroom. Lastly, he checked his closet.

Blaise, relieved at finding nothing out of place in his bedroom, took his shoes off and climbed onto his bed. He was rather tired – had been all day – and was determined to get a nap in before his mother demanded anything of him from downstairs.

_Wait, what…?_

Blaise's knee stumbled over a slab of _something._ The slab had sharp corners and was very hard under his kneecap. Quickly, and with a yelp of surprise, Blaise scrambled off the mattress.

He pulled off the covers.

Then, he opened his mouth wide and positively _squawked._

For there, lying in his bed in resplendent sleep as if she was in her own bed, was Luna Lovegood.

He took a few steps back, shocked and speechless. She was curled up into a little ball with her chin tucked beneath her head. What was Loony doing here? _How_ did she get here? Why was she _sleeping?_

At the last thought, he straightened up and stared down at her coolly. His whole countenance radiated righteous fury and bewildered puzzlement.

He was appalled by the breaking in and trespassing, still not believing that Luna Lovegood, the girl he had left at the alley not one hour ago, had beaten him back to his _own_ house. And, most importantly, _his_ bed. Out of all the other bedrooms (around ten) in the house, why did she decide to nap in his?

Blaise frowned deeply, deciding on his options. Option A, wake her. Option B, wait until she woke up. Next. What were the possible consequences? Either way, he thought, the girl in question would react in the same way. Option A was the best choice. She didn't seem like the kind to throw a tantrum on waking, nor scream rape at being found on a stranger's bed (which, by the way, would have been entirely her fault anyway). Option B, however, was another story.

Patience was a virtue, and Blaise had it in spades…

…but this was just ridiculous.

He debated against shaking her, not wanting to touch her if at all possible. Who knew what kind of diseases she carried? Blaise scavenged and found a bulky leather-bound book. Perfect, he thought.

He slammed it down hard on the floor, making it _thunk_ loudly.

With satisfaction, he saw her blink her wide owl-eyes open. She looked for all the world like the Hogwarts Headmaster, movements leisurely but deliberate.

"Get up," he commanded while setting his book back on the shelf.

She rubbed her eyes, yawning groggily. "Good morning, Blaise Zabini."

Good morning?! Was that all she had to say?! Blaise shot her a dirty glare and crossed his arms defiantly.

"I see you are very angry." She said it almost apologetically. Luna was restless. She hadn't expected her nap to be interrupted so soon and needed something to play with. Now sitting up, she twisted the blanket around her fingers like pretzels.

"Define angry."

"In the current state of which you are," she spoke intelligently, pulling herself into a cross legged sitting position (still on his bed!) and cuddling his pillow under her chin.

He was aware of Luna staring at him with her glassy eyes and faraway look. It incited his annoyance further. He suspected that her behavior was indicative of her feelings of removal from the situation, as if what she did was not wrong nor out of the ordinary. And it made him angry, knowing that she couldn't see she was upsetting him.

It almost made him feel insignificant.

Blaise clenched his fists, taking a curt step forward. "Get out of my room, Lovegood. I don't care if you're with the guests downstairs. I don't care how loony you act down there, and I don't care if you embarrass my mother. But this is my territory, and I won't stand for you contaminating my sheets."

"Contaminating?" she echoed bemusedly. "You speak like I have the Crittenden Plague."

"Crittenden Plague?"

"The Crittenden Plague," she nodded. "Eons more contagious than the Bubonic…"

"Look, I don't need the history of a made-up sickness. Doesn't matter, I'll be burning my sheets anyways, along with anything else you've set your dirty hands on. Make me a list; I'll be getting the quarantine people over by two."

"Did you ask why I was here?" she asked suddenly. Blaise started, confused. The girl was random, just as the rumors said.

"Excuse me?"

"Did you ask why I was here," she repeated, "in your room?"

What a thing to say! Blaise would have laughed out loud (cruelly, of course) if it wasn't in his best interest to keep his reputation intact. Instead, he thought about it. The reasons, that was. Must it have been to bother him?

"No, but I can assume," he refuted coolly.

"Oh," she said. "Then you were right."

Her whimsical smile made him change his mind. The desired effect was not to bother him. She was simply an oddball and did whatever she did. Luna could not operate on ulterior motives and complicated tactics. From what he could tell, it was not in her nature to do so. Despite being chummy with Gryffindors (who set out to discredit guiltless Slytherins any chance they got) and a member of Ravenclaw House (home of discretion and intelligence), Blaise could not imagine her possessing even a drop of malevolence.

He was always very good at judging people. (Pride comes before a fall)

There was a brief silence after that. On one side was Blaise, whose icy demeanor was lowering the temperature of the room each passing moment. On the other side was nonchalant Luna, who was emanating a very lukewarm feeling to her surroundings.

Dropping down with a sigh, the girl plowed her face into white feather downed goodness. "Your pillow smells really good." She breathed.

Blaise rose an eyebrow. Again with the randomness! "What?"

"I said—"

"I know what you said," he interrupted, feeling violated. That pillow was definitely going to be the first one to go up in flames.

She seemed to notice his discomfort. "I didn't know it was your room."

"Ah, I see. Out of the ten other bedrooms, you just had pick mine."

"I needed somewhere to lay down for a bit..."

"Yes, I completely understand." said Blaise sarcastically.

"Your room was the only one empty. The others were very, ah, occupied." An embarrassed look flitted across her face.

Oh.

Gross.

A mix of disgust and relief flooded him. Thank god, he would have set _this side of the building_ on fire if he found people had been snogging (_or doing the bloody deed_) in his room.

"Sorry, I'm a little tired," and she lay down on the bed again, cradling the pillow to her cheek.

Blaise would've been angry if she didn't look like she would collapse any second. He straightened up, noticing her straggly bed hair and flushed cheeks.

Grudgingly, he had to admire her a bit. Despite her appearance, which indicated all symptoms of fatigue, she managed to maintain courtesy for the boy. She kept eye contact and even sought to plead her case.

Luna explained her invitation to his house. Or, more specifically, the wedding reception. Oddly enough, her father (whom he had heard was the eccentric editor of The Quibbler) was a friend of his mother's. (Acquaintance, more like).

He inputed comments every now and then, but let her talk. It turned out, not five minutes after he had left, her dad arrived, and they drove straight away to Blaise's house. She hadn't known it was his until she saw him when she woke up.

Next, and perhaps unsurprisingly, she admitted she was intoxicated. Downstairs, she drank some Butterbeer (she heard the beer part, and it was the right color) and had felt terribly dizzy on her way to the bathroom. It was suffocating to get around the other guests, there were just so many, and it was really hot and stuffy…

Blaise noticed her words began to drift off more as she continued speaking. Sleepy Luna was out of wits, more than normal. She would sway side to side, back and forth and diagonally. It was if she was being tossed upon the sea. He watched her with interest as she teetered and hit the headboard of his bed.

"Congratulations," like air, her voice fanned against his face, "on your new father."

"Yes, congrats to me," said Blaise sarcastically. "Now everything would be perfect if only I just knew what his name was."

"You don't know?" asked Luna, astonished.

"You think I would lie?" barked Blaise. He felt bitterness coil like a spring in his palate. It made his mouth dry as he spoke. "Do you, Lovegood?"

"No," she amended. "I'm just surprised."

"Well, don't be."

It was the truth. Likewise, his mother's current husband did not even know Blaise existed. But that was the plan. It was all a part of the plan.

"My mother's an idiot." He said to himself, forgetting Luna was there.

"No," she argued. "You're lucky to have a mom. I wish I still had my mom."

"You can have mine." said Blaise seriously.

"Your mother is beautiful, she really is, but I can't. I only want my mum. Besides, Dad couldn't possibly be with any other woman."

Inwardly, Blaise snickered. His mother with Luna's father? Briefly, he imagined the statuesque model and the fanatical journalist taking vows. For once, Lovegood actually made some sense.

_Ow…_

A sudden pain assaulted his calves. It prickled as if thousands of tiny needles were sticking into his feet and lower legs. The tingling trekked down the entire length of his leg, then back again.

His leg was falling asleep on him. It felt very strange standing up. At this point, they were having a real conversation, and she didn't look like she was going to be leaving anytime soon.

Ugh, sitting on the bed with Luna Lovegood? He scowled, abhorring the idea. So he sat down in a chair by the bed. Blaise listened to her ramble on even longer, about things he wasn't concerned with, and things she wasn't concerned with, but nevertheless very important because _somebody_ had to be concerned…

His eyelids growing droopy, he strained to hear her drowsy, almost hypnotic voice prattle on. The continual outpouring of words produced a lulling effect, one that was dulling his senses…

He knew what was happening, but it was too late. Mustering up the last of his energy, he tried to catch Luna's attention. He couldn't tell if she was still speaking; her voice was echoing against the insides of his head so that the nuances were melding together and producing unintelligible gibberish. Nor could he tell if she even heard him.

Indeed, in Blaise's scant perception, there was a yellow blur and it was mixing in with the blues and the blacks and the greys…

Mumbling "shut up," Blaise fell into a deep slumber.

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A/N: Reviews make me update faster. Sorta. Kinda. Eh, we'll see.


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